I Will Make Him a Widower

I was washing the caked blood from my five-year-old daughter's broken body in the family mortuary. She had been tortured to death by a rival cartel.

My husband Julian, the underworld's legendary "Master of Whispers," claimed his intelligence division did everything they could, but the rescue coordinates were wrong.

Yet, while I stood over our child's corpse, he was busy comforting his new apprentice, Chloe.

She posted a picture of their intertwined hands online, bragging that she had "accidentally deleted a crucial audio file" yesterday, but the boss had held her hand and forgiven her.